


Whumptober one-shots

by Enby_Baby



Series: Whumptober one-shots [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Author Is Sleep Deprived, Dean Winchester Being an Asshole, Gunshot Wounds, Hallucinating Sam Winchester, Hunt Gone Wrong, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt Sam Winchester, Isolation, One Shot, Other, Sam Winchester Angst, Sam Winchester Has Mental Health Issues, Sam Winchester Needs a Hug, Sam Winchester Whump, Sam Winchester in Lucifer's Cage, Whumptober 2019
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-05
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:27:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25724368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enby_Baby/pseuds/Enby_Baby
Summary: I had tried to write for whumptober last year and never quite finished. However, I do have a few that I did write and am sort of proud of. Most of them are Sam-centric because i'm a sucker for hurt Sam.So here's what I did end up writing for whumptober 2019
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Lucifer/Sam Winchester
Series: Whumptober one-shots [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1865884
Comments: 6
Kudos: 51
Collections: Supernatural





	1. Shaky Hands

**Author's Note:**

> Injured and on the brink of being delirious Sam has to dig this bullet out of his side.
> 
> Alternate summary:  
> Sam is too stubborn to call his big brother and instead decides to almost die on the bathroom floor.

“You’re fine… You’re fine…”

The words don’t help, not really, they don’t offer him much strength as he stumbles back to the motel room, hand clutched against the warmly flowing wound in his abdomen.

He went out for a walk of all things, tired of the steadily growing tension between his brother and him. Sam doesn’t blame him, not entirely, but after a while he could no longer handle the uncomfortable silences and excused himself into the cool night. He hadn’t expected to run into their shifter, still wearing the face of its last victim, and he hadn’t expected it to be carrying a gun of all things. It had just seemed too human a precaution to take.

The bullet pierced through his upper abdomen, right between what felt like his third and fourth rib, and it brought him down. He only considers himself lucky the thing hadn’t decided to finish the job, however as he trips and stumbles back to the room he doesn’t feel particularly lucky. Pain throbs through his every limb and the steadily increasing blood flow had really begun to worry him by the time he nearly collapses against the door, how the hell was he to explain this to Dean?

That problem is unfortunately solved as he opens the door to an empty room, he doesn’t need to look at the note in his brothers trademark, blocky handwriting to know where he had gone. He wants to be thankful, unsure if he could deal with the interrogation of why he hadn’t immediately called, but the thought of dealing with this wound alone, his slowly decreasing lucidity not aiding the situation, does not make breathing any easier. Still he slams the door shut, hardly worried about waking the neighbors at this point, and staggers over to his duffel pulling out the first aid kit with his free hand not currently trying to stop the bleeding. He lets himself fall to the tiled floor of the dingy bathroom, barely managing to swing the door shut.

Prying his trembling fingers away from the wound takes a moment, but soon enough he’s able to assess it. Red stains his shirt and the surrounding skin, still flowing heavily from where the bullet had pierced flesh. He can’t be entirely sure it hadn’t hit an organ, but judging by the pain level he only hopes for the best. The tweezers shake in his unsteady hand, it takes more than a little willpower to bring them closer to the hole. With a deep breath he lets the unforgiving metal breach his skin, biting off a yell of pain. With his hand’s violent tremors it takes longer than he’d like to find the bullet still lodged in his body and even longer to grasp it. Nearly biting off his own tongue he slowly pulls it out, the thick liquid running warmly over his fingers not at all helping his uneasy grip. He thinks momentarily he’ll pass out, vision whiting out to aid this theory. 

Both the tweezers and the bullet hit the floor with a loud clang, Sam gasps in a few shaky breaths, letting his head fall back to the wooden door at his backside. He only takes a minute upon noticing the whitened pallor of his skin and slowly fading consciousness, a part of him wants to close his eyes and let whatever happens happen. Still he forces his trembling fingers back into the first aid kit, one of his hands moving to grab at the white towel on the sink, and blinks rapidly to clear the slowly consuming black at the corners of his vision. Wiping the towel over the throbbing flesh it almost feels like his very intestines would leak through the small hole, he can practically see his own entrails spread out before him and quickly clears that thought.

He allows the towel to soak up as much as it can, applying a light pressure to hopefully slow down the bleeding and gain some of his lucidity back. Once he’s sure he cannot wait any longer he pulls the stained rag away.

He hardly feels the needle when it first pierces through soft tissue, hands unsteadily clutching the tool in a grip too firm to be considered calm. As the stitch slowly drags through however he can’t help but gasp, head knocking against the door frame behind him to stop any further noises. He drops the needle a few times, if he could only get his fingers to stop shaking, stop panicking for a moment. However his body feels as though it’s going into shock, skin cold in contrast to the warm pain pulsing through his torso. His vision blurs. He can’t honestly tell if those are tears in his eyes.

Finally, uncooperative hands aside, he manages to finish. Pulling the hole closed he ties off the end, not without another long struggle. He lets the reddened needle fall to the floor, which is in itself stained with splotches of red.

Sam breathes deeply, lungs burning with each inhale. He can’t quite look down at his hands nor the wound for a few minutes, both the sight and the smell of blood assaulting his senses with tinges of copper. It’s warm, he notices idly, yet the floor is so cold. He can’t really determine if the shivers still wracking his body are from the cold or blood loss, logically he knows the right answer, but right now he’s just tired. He lets his eyelids fall, heavily plunging him into a comfortable darkness. He knows he should get up, knows he should clean the stitches, clean up all the blood, but it’s as if his body is not his own. Instead of doing anything he logically knows he should, his body falls to the side, curling up as if to protect the newly sutured wound. His hands clutch at the sides of his pounding skull, idly he notices how cold his skin is. All he can really focus on is the fact that his hands are still trembling. They clutch at his sweat soaked hair as if to calm themselves. He can’t find the energy to care as they cling to his scalp, coating his hair in red. Distantly he hears the front door open, the sound of a coat being thrown off to the side of the room. He doesn’t jump at the sudden knocking on the bathroom door, the wood shaking at his back similar to the violent tremors of his body.

“Sammy, you in there?” Dean’s slurred voice carries through the cold fog slowly dragging Sam under. Sam can practically smell the alcohol on his brother’s breath. “Yeah-- Y-Yeah i’m here,” he can’t really hear his own voice, can’t feel if he’d spoken at all loud enough for his brother to hear.

Silence rings for a few beats, and when Dean next speaks it almost sounds as if he’d sobered up at the sound of his baby brother’s distress, “Are you okay?”

Sam feels a small smile lift his lips, or maybe it’s a grimace, he can’t tell. The doorknob jiggles and Sam can’t remember having locked the door. He lets his eyes fall closed again, the mind numbing blackness a small comfort. He feels the door as Dean tries to force it open but he can no longer hear his big brother.

“I’m fine.”


	2. Explosion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure I have much of a story for this one? Set sometime after season 11 I guess.

Newscasters called it a possible nuclear attack, scientists claimed it were an asteroid breaching the atmosphere. Everyone could agree that it wasn’t quite natural, whatever it was. It seemed to shake the entire globe, rumble the ground so violently many were surprised it stayed together at all. No one could really tell where it had originated. Sam and Dean knew. Dean himself had felt a similar explosion when the darkness had been roaming free, when Heaven had decided to take matters into their own hands and nuke the bitch. It had been the same ordeal, brutal tremors rocking every person around the world. Even if it hadn’t worked against Amara, Dean knows how much damage such a thing can do and the fact that both Winchesters felt it in such a secure, underground bunker? It had to have been huge.

It took a while before Sam was able to track it, to discover where the blast had been centered. Dean hadn’t really listened when his brother began explaining how he did it, something about blast radius and the general vicinity where the earthquake had been greatest. A large town in Nebraska seemed to be at the center of it all, and within minutes the two piled into Baby and sped over, even if only to see the damage.

The drive was silent, an unspoken dread hanging heavily over their heads. As they drew closer Sam couldn’t help but feel sick, something felt really wrong. His gut twisted painfully in a way he hadn’t felt for a long time, not since dealing with Lucifer himself, a certain trepidation that pounds through his very veins. A feeling like they should turn back, save themselves from whatever horror awaits, a darker part of his mind urges him to jump from the car currently speeding at about 70 miles per hour, just to get away from the steadily growing feeling. They had returned from a hunt barely a day ago, a simple case of a restless spirit, and things were okay all things considered. The blast had woken Sam up from an already uneasy sleep, the very sound ringing in his ears and pounding against his skull so hard he swore it would crack open. He thought maybe it had been a nightmare, the last reminisces of trauma swimming through his unconsciousness, but when Dean practically broke his door down he knew it was real.

Dean hadn’t fared much better, though wide awake the noise had almost knocked him right out of his seat, half drank beer spilling over the counter with the tremors rocking the very walls. It was more than a normal explosion, he half expected the ceiling to begin caving in. Only when it didn’t, did his instincts kick in, Sam was his first priority. The younger male looked afraid, still tired eyes wide and unfocused as Dean rushed in. It didn’t take long before both were out in the war room, Sam still dressed in his sleep pants, and discussing what the hell that was. Dean had tried to call Castiel once they realized what it could have been, with no answer. He tried a few more times, both by cell and by prayer, once in the car and still no word. So with Cas MIA and who knows how much damage they make it to the city in record time.

Smoke hangs like a blanket in the air, the darkened sky barely visible through the gray smog. Even with windows tightly sealed the smell of gas assaults the boys. The two share a look, unease growing like a weed. The doors creaking open are deafening in the otherwise quiet street, it’s not the normal silence of nighttime, no crickets chirp, no lights glow, it’s unnatural.

Sam immediately turns on the flashlight once it hits his hand, the darkness beginning to feel like a threat itself. He never considered himself to be scared of the dark, but in this moment he almost feels like a child again afraid of the shadows dancing at the corners of his vision. Dean follows suit, scanning the empty street with the white beam, a few cars parked at the sides, and houses and shops plunged into darkness. Street lamps flicker maybe once before going out completely in the distance, and the air smells like death. “You sure this is the place, Sam?” the question is unnecessary, part of Dean just wants to fill the silence.

Sam can only nod, eyes scanning the nearby buildings for some sign of life. He’s the first to begin walking, down the narrow expanse of road and shining his flashlight into any windows he can find. Dean watches as he all but freezes at one, before he can ask Sam is walking inside of what he now realizes is a gas station, a sign above reading ‘24 hours’. 

He follows his brother in with an all but silent cuss and nearly runs into his baby brother who stands staring off into the building. There are several people, varying ages of about 20-40 maybe, men and women scattered among the aisles. They aren’t moving, skin deathly pale and eyes still wide open and staring off at nothing in particular, glazed pupils no longer shining with any signs of life. Dean idly notices a few of them lying in puddles of their own reddish vomit, definitely not a healthy color. One of them steadily bleeds from a gash on their forehead, looking as if they had collapsed and cracked their skull on the way down.

Any previous feelings of dread grow, and before he can be stopped Sam is rushing outside into the smoke-filled air, practically running to the nearest house. Dean watches as he bangs against the wood, and after receiving no answer kicks in the wooden frame. He wants to scold his baby brother for such a thing, but he too can feel that something is very wrong here, when his brother walks back out he’s pale, stumbling his way back into the street and looking as if he were about to throw up. Dean rushes to his side just as he collapses to the concrete.

“Hey, alright it’s alright,” he slowly eases his brother into some semblance of sitting, letting his hand rest on the younger males shoulder as he breathes heavily.

“Dean,” he violently digs into the scarred flesh of his palm, desperate for this to be a dream, hallucination, something, “T-they’re all… Some of them were kids….”

Dean shushes him quietly, giving him a few moments before helping pull him to his feet, “Come on, i’m sure someone is okay, we can find someone.” Sam doesn’t believe what he’s saying anymore than Dean does himself. Still he gives a shaky nod and allows his brother to lead him further into the town. With every house, every business they check the air seems to grow thicker, the smell of death stronger, and the feeling of dread worse. It isn’t really a surprise when they can’t find any sign of life, doesn’t make the realization any easier.

Once back at the car, Sam still looks ready to collapse. Dean feels the same, the thought of an entire population wiped out isn’t a good feeling. All those innocent people dead, and for what? What could heaven possibly need to do this for? It was never a question, most angels couldn’t care less about humanity, some certainly want the world to end, but… why now? 

“Why,” Sam speaks as if reading his older brother’s thoughts, “why would they kill all these people… What were they trying to do?”

Dean hesitates, hating the way his brother sounds so weak, so hurt by the loss of so many people, “I don’t know… The last time they resorted to this was with the darkness… I haven’t seen or heard of anything they might see as a threat-- Nothing that would require this.”

Sam doesn’t respond, doesn’t really have an answer. There were no impending threats as of now, no reason for heaven to react so violently, however an entire city now lies in ashes. Hundreds, maybe thousands dead. How could they not have seen such an attack coming? If they had, maybe they could have saved these people, stopped this from happening. If only he’d worked harder…

As if noticing such thoughts Dean grabs onto his little brother’s arm, offering him a look that hopefully doesn’t portray how terrible he feels, “Look, we’ll find Cas… He’ll know wh-”

The ground shakes, a loud, thunderous noise shakes the very air. Both boys jump practically out of their skin, sharing a wide eyed look. It sounded like another bomb, another angelic nuke, another attack….

It sounds like war...


	3. Delirium

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set in season 7 at the peak of Sam's hallucinations

It had seemed like a rather good day, considering Sam’s current condition. He’d have moments of course where Dean would notice his hazel’s chasing something off to the side only he could see. However he’d seemed almost.... Normal today. Back to his old self, before hell, before Lucifer. He was laughing at his older brother’s taunts, aiding the most recent case with bouts of research, hell he’d been the one to discover it was a Rugaru currently munching on people in such a small town.

Given the fact that Sam had few to no incidents for the past couple of days, save for the normal nightmares that haunt him each time he attempts to sleep, Dean didn’t think twice about leaving him alone for a few hours while he went off to roast the Rugaru. His little brother didn’t argue, knowing full well he shouldn’t be out hunting when his mind could practically collapse any minute, and was comfortably searching up a new case when Dean did finally walk out that door, homemade flamethrower at his side.

The hunt had been successful, it hadn’t been hard to light up the son of a bitch once Dean found him. He had walked into that crappy motel room downright giddy, ready to discuss the hunt over a couple of beers. When he opens the door however the room itself feels wrong, his first thought is to find Sammy. At first he doesn’t see him. Only moments before he went into panic mode does he spot the sasquatch of a man, who looks for all its worth small. Curled up in the far corner of the room, knees to his chest and arms wrapped protectively around himself. Even from the short distance Dean notices the violent tremors running through his body, brown hair falling in waves to cover his face. Dean shuts the door quietly as to not startle the man, noticing the way he tenses at another presence. 

“Sammy,” he speaks softly, trying to announce his presence without throwing the startled male into a frenzy, “Sam, look at me.”

It’s clear even before the brunette looks up that he’s trapped in the throes of a hallucination, his eyes are wide and glassy, a deer in the headlights look at it’s finest. His skin is a few shades paler than it usually is, and Dean can’t help but notice how he looks almost young in his fear. The boy stands slowly, shaky legs barely holding him upright, he backs as far into that corner as he can looking as though he wanted it to swallow him whole. Dean takes only a step forward before he’s forced to halt, only now noticing the demon killing blade held white-knuckled in his little brother's trembling fingers.

Sam may be lost to his illusion, may be well and truly afraid, but Dean isn’t stupid enough to question his fighting skills even when incapacitated like he is. So instead he raises his hands in a show of surrender, watching his baby brother’s head tilt distrustingly at the motion.

“D-don’t,” his voice is quiet, hardly a murmur, “S-stay ba-back.”

“Sammy, it’s me,” he dares take a single step forward, stopping only when the knife is raised defensively, “It’s Dean.”

Something seems to click in those glassy, hazel eyes, they narrow, his brows furrowing as if really struggling to concentrate through whatever’s currently assaulting his head. Instead of recognition, or even relief his gaze turns to an angry kind of fear Dean had only ever seen in wild animals, certainly not a look he ever expected to see on his brother.

“No,” Sam sounds desperate, the blade in his hand shaking violently while his other arm reaches behind him to the wall as if to confirm it was still there, “n-not him. You c-ca-can’t be him!”

Dean narrows his eyes, watching his baby brother shake his head, muttering a few inaudible words to himself, Dean can’t help noticing it doesn’t sound like english, before letting himself study the other male again, eyes occasionally darting off to the far wall to chase other illusions.

“A-anyone el-else… Just please… n-not h-him. Y-you ca-can’t be him…”

It hits the older Winchester like a punch to the gut. Sam thinks he’s Lucifer, wearing his older brother’s face in order to torment him. The thought makes Dean nauseous, was that a common occurence down there? How often did Sam need to remind himself that it wasn’t real, that it wasn’t Dean hurting him? Who else had the devil worn in order to screw with the young Winchester?

“Sam,” he pauses, unsure of how he could possibly prove to his delirious brother his identity, “Sam, it’s me.” A head shake is his only answer. Dean huffs quietly, if he could get close maybe he could get Sam to recognize him, but he doesn’t feel he’ll be much help if Sam manages to get a good slice in with that blade.

“Not De-Dean… n-not…”

“Sam,” when the younger male only offers another erratic head shake, Dean changes tactics, raising his voice slightly to what Sam would often refer to as his drill-sergeant tone, a tone of voice learned from years with Dad, “Sam!”

Sam full body flinches, wide, dewy eyes jumping away from whatever illusion they’d been chasing and landing on his older brother with a new fear, his grip minutely loosens on the knife, suddenly unsure it was such a good idea.

“Put the knife down,” he lowers his voice but keeps that commanding tone, even to only keep the young man's attention. When Sam doesn’t immediately comply he adds a sharp, “Now.”

The knife falls from his hand with a clatter, bouncing once on the carpet before landing by his feet. Sam falls shortly after, sliding down the wall until he again sits in his curled up little ball, muttering almost inaudibly what sound like apologies.

Dean quickly makes his way forward, kicking the knife further into the room and out of his little brother's reach, as Dean kneels down to Sam’s level the boy tenses so much Dean’s afraid he might actually hurt himself.

“I’m s-o-sorry,” Sam continues his ramblings, “p-please don’t… don’t hur-r-rt me.”

Dean hesitates only a moment before reaching out to grab his little brother’s arm, the touch is light but Sam winces as if he’d been struck.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he lets his tone lighten, speaking as if to a frightened childl, “Sam, look at me.”

It takes a good few minutes before Sam complies, he looks ready to look into the fiery red eyes of Satan himself, the soft evergreen throws him off. Dean waits patiently for his little brother to scan every inch of his face, to scrutinize his very features as if looking for a mistake in the facade, finding none his breathing slows slightly.

“It’s me, Sammy,” a certain luster slowly makes its way back into hazel eyes, “I’m here.”

A shaky hand reaches out, and Dean lets the young male lightly touch his face, tracing his jawline as if afraid his hand would go right through it, his lip begins to quiver upon realization. Before the older Winchester can react that same hand is twisting in the fabric of his shirt and pulling him closer. Dean barely catches himself from falling on the boy, but lets him bury his face into his chest, breathing in the familiar smell of car oil and whiskey that’s just entirely Dean.

“Alright, you’re alright.” Dean isn’t sure if he’s trying to convince himself or his little brother as he carefully cards a hand through disheveled brown roots. 

The young man’s shoulders shake with the force of his sobs, hands entwined in the flannel fabric of his brother’s shirt as though afraid he would leave. Dean lets his other hand trace Sam’s back in random shapes. It takes a long while before the forceful sobs die down to the occasional sniffle, and the violent tremors become softer trembles occasionally running up and down his spine. His grip had not let up, and Dean isn’t sure he could have pulled away even if he wanted to, not that he feels quite ready to leave his little brother’s embrace yet anyhow.

“De?”

“Yeah Sammy, I’m here,” for a few minutes Dean had thought his baby brother had passed out, his breaths a little too shallow.

“H-He was here,” Sam’s frightful voice is muffled from where he’s still buried in Dean’s chest, it almost feels as if he’s afraid to open his eyes, afraid of what he would see, “I-I saw him…”

Dean knows it was a hallucination, knows who the ‘he’ is, but all he does is pull his little brother closer until he’s practically curled up in the older Winchester’s lap, “It’s alright… I won’t let him hurt you… Never again.”


	4. Dragged Away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 13x21 dive into Sam's thoughts after he's brought back

“And if we die, we’ll do that together too.”

Thinking back now Sam realizes he may have jinxed himself. As they are jumped by the hoarde of vampires he can’t help but wish those words hadn’t left his mouth at all. There’s enough of them, it should have been quick, but then Sam feels one latch onto his arm. Before he can swing his machete another is at his other side, and more keep coming. He calls for his brother as soon as the weapon falls from his grip, as soon as he’s forced to the ground.

He doesn’t feel it at first, he could feel the things breath on his throat followed by the scrape of teeth, then there's just warmth, flowing, gushing over him. It throbs, he swears he can feel his own heartbeat in his skull. He knows he should be feeling something, idly he realizes it to be shock. The cold running through his body begins to worry him as blackness slowly creeps over his vision, but he doesn’t have the energy to really do anything about it.

He can feel the ground scrape against his flesh as the creatures drag him away, distantly he can hear Dean calling for him among the scruff, he can’t get anything past his lips but a wet gurgle, and even then his pounding skull doesn’t quite let him process it. The last thing he feels is the ground scraping into him, the last thing he hears is his own body being dragged over stone, he can see the dim glow of his light before his vision blackens, and just before he takes his last breath he thinks of Dean.

He’s floating.

It’s black, darker than anything. Sam doesn’t think he’d be able to see his own hand in front of his face, but then again he doesn’t quite feel like he can move, hell it doesn’t feel like he has a body anymore, maybe he doesn’t exist. Maybe this is the empty like Billie had once promised. There isn’t even the familiar buzz in his ears among the silence, he’s never heard such complete quiet. He finds himself not minding the ever expanding nothingness. It’s certainly better than hell, and any hopes of going to heaven had left him long ago. He’s tired, he notices idly, yet he isn’t sure he’s really awake. 

He’s died his fair share, he doesn’t quite remember the time Jake killed him. He remembers the pain of a knife cutting through his spinal cord, distantly remembers Dean holding him as he collapsed, but everything after that is a blur. He’d been killed plenty by angels, but he doesn’t remember much besides darkness, perhaps he’d been brought back quick enough that his soul hadn’t had time to be reaped. Then of course the first time he went to heaven. He remembers the gunshot, pain exploding across his torso, but that faded quickly. It had felt like waking up from a long sleep.

This. This feels nothing like that. He can remember the vampire tearing out his throat, remember the feeling of his own blood gushing over his neck, remember the feeling of teeth in his skin, yet he remembers no pain. He thinks he heard Dean shouting for him, but even that hadn’t felt real.

Dean.

He’ll be okay, right? He has Mom, she can take care of him. He has Cas, Jack. He has a family who can take care of him, much better than Sam ever had. Maybe this is all a blessing, maybe they're better off without him. Oddly the thought doesn’t hurt, he can’t quite feel. He just wants to let the darkness consume him, let his consciousness fade to nothing, he doesn’t want to remember, doesn’t want to feel.

But when has he ever gotten a choice?

He’s slowly dragged from the blackness. He tries to cling to it, remain where it doesn’t hurt, but just as quickly he finds himself in the darkness produced only by his eyelids. He can feel the stone digging into his shoulder blades, feel the cold air seeping through his jacket, the steady echo of something dripping. His eyes are flying open before he can fully process his surroundings. His muscles scream in admonition as he jolts up, gasping for air.

Immediately his hand is moving to his throat, a dull ache running from his neck to his shoulder. His hand comes away stained red, but there’s no wound to be found. His lungs burn with each inhale, as if it had been hours since he last breathed, maybe it had. He remembers the vampires, remembers the blood, and remembers the darkness. He was dead, he should be dead.

Slowly, as if afraid reality would collapse around him, Sam stands. His legs wobble for a few moments. He grabs at his neck a couple more times, half expecting to find the skin split and still bleeding, the skin is cold but ultimately unscathed. Taking a few uneasy breaths he looks around, squinting against the darkness.

The familiar face of the devil is what he finds, and his first thought is that he’s still dead. That he went to hell after all, but just as quickly he can feel the realness of the grace in the air. Feel the chill that he only now realizes is not natural, it takes a good few minutes before he feels he can breathe again. Lucifer waits patiently, playing idly with a cobweb as if this were all unimportant.

“No,” Sam finally manages to speak, and the soft denial is all he can get out.

“Yeah, you can do the whole pinch yourself, rub your eyes thing,” he responds in a dangerously playful tone, “or you can put on your big boy pants and just cut to the realization that… yup… it’s me.”

Sam finds himself taking a step back despite the devil not moving, he doesn’t miss the smirk he gets in return.

“Y-you…” He can’t get the words out, it can’t be true, it’s not possible, “You brought me back…”

“I did,” he pauses as if expecting some kind of praise for such an act, “you’re welcome.”

“W-why?” he asks almost desperately. Why would Lucifer of all people bring him back, why can’t he ever catch a break, why couldn’t he just stay dead for once!?

“Well i’m getting to that.”

It all hits Sam at once, “The rift… Rowena?”

“Oh she’s fine,” he smiles, and it would be fond if not for the light anger behind his words, “I mean I was gonna kill her, but then she blasted me here… Great, self defense, but uh… I was coming here anyway.”

The young Winchester can’t help but feel relieved, Rowena had already been killed by this monster once. She doesn’t deserve to go through such a thing again. He never really liked the witch, but she was one of the few people who actually understood the fear that Lucifer could somehow strike into you, she saw his true face, she too was haunted by the devil, and Sam could almost find comfort in that.

“But… We drained you…” Sam’s lips move of his own accord, he can only really half focus on the response. Lucifer ate other angels, does that mean he’s powered up again? Or is he still weak enough they can capture him? When Sam asks what he wants the devil doesn’t give him a real answer, and Sam finds himself confused. The archangel always had a reason, he wouldn’t bring Sam back for no reason, right?

Still the urge to just get away from this creature, to get out of this damn cave wins over everything. He refuses the offered flashlight with as much of a bitch-face as he can muster and gets only an eye roll in return.

He flinches at the snarling figures his beam lands on. The vampires, fighting to free themselves of some invisible force, a few of them have fresh blood on their faces, Sam idly wonders if it’s his. He doesn’t quite listen to the devil as he speaks again, heartbeat pounding in his ears.

“What do you want!?”

The devil’s face falls, any pretense of playfulness gone. His eyes are cold, calculating, and Sam feels himself shrink away from the glare that is sent his way, finds himself backing up another step only to be deterred by snarling behind him.

“I want what you already have.” Lucifer’s voice is void of any emotion besides maybe distaste, and for a second Sam finds himself face to face with the true devil, “A relationship with my son.”

Sam starts at this. He could not let Lucifer near Jack, he would no doubt corrupt the boy. He half-listens as the devil continues talking, and Sam is once again reminded why he has been referred to as having a silver tongue. He talks of good game.

In a way he’s right, he did ‘raise Sam from the darkness into the light’ and Sam really hates that fact.

However even when he found himself in silence, the devil awaiting an answer, Sam can’t say the word Lucifer wants to hear.

“And what if I say no?”

Those blue eyes narrow, the same look Lucifer always gave when Sam still seemed to remember that two letter word. He turns away momentarily as if to compose himself, rubbing a hand over the blonde scruff of his chin, when he turns back his face is calm, but the cold fury in his eyes chills the air.

“Look, I'm going to make this real easy for you,” he huffs, “I’m getting to my son. So the only question is, you coming, or that?” He gestures to the horde of vamps struggling relentlessly against his grace, his hand moves up ready to snap and set them free, “your move champ.”

Sam knows the right answer here. Knows he should throw himself back into the writhing mess of vampires, do the right thing and stay dead for once. A part of him thinks that’s selfish, after all he really just wants to be away from Lucifer. Would the archangel bother bringing him back a second time, he seems to really see Sam as a way to get to his son. Is it a chance he’s willing to take? That Lucifer would leave him to the blackness this time?

Then he thinks of Dean, of Mom, of Cas. It’s not fair to leave them behind, even though not too long ago he was ready to. If he does this, knowing Dean he would come back for the body, putting himself in unnecessary danger like he has so many times for his little brother. Even Cas wouldn’t be able to stop him. And Mom, he’d hardly gotten to know her, to form a relationship that he so desperately wants. Would it be fair to give that up? Besides he doesn’t doubt Lucifer wouldn’t forgo the camp just because Sam isn’t with him. Would he be as forgiving to his family, or would he be putting them in more danger? Then again the thought of leading the devil into camp sends guilt twisting through him. His family could never forgive him if he led the archangel to Jack.

Jack…

Sam almost smiles at the thought of the boy, his boy. How would he handle Sam’s death? Sure he had Cas, Mary, and sometimes Dean, but none of them really understand him like Sam does. Understand what it’s like to be afraid of yourself, to fear that you’re evil. Would that fear alone deter Jack from his real father? Lucifer has a way of manipulating people, he’ll tell you what you want to hear until you’re far enough in his grasp that escape is impossible. And Jack… the boy is young, naive. He doesn’t know the full extent of what the devil has done, and Sam doesn’t doubt Lucifer would play the victim as he’s done so many times before. Even if Castiel is there to deter him, even Gabriel might be of help, would Jack listen to them? Sam knows Jack is willing to listen to him, if he explained everything, maybe the young nephilim would realize what his father is before he can get his hooks in.

It’s the thought of Jack that stops him from stepping off that metaphorical ledge. He turns to the devil and a nod is all he can muster, he’s afraid if he tries to speak he’ll jump into the monstrous horde before he can stop himself. Sam tries to ignore the glee that passes over the archangel’s face.

So here he is. Dragged out of death and dragged into the devil’s plot. Here he is, owing Lucifer his life. As he leads the way out of the cave he finds himself wanting to go back, missing the darkness that was so quickly pulled away from him, maybe he made the wrong choice, but he knows there’s no going back.


	5. Isolation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set in Lucifer's cage

“Leave me alone!”

Simple words, about as useless as all his other arguments had been. Strings of no’s and stop’s had gone unnoticed, but oddly enough this time the Devil stopped. He had been mid sentence, blabbering on about some random nonsense all the while carving open the boy’s rib cage, he had seemed particularly interested in the frantic beating of his heart. He stopped, fingers coated in a deep red just inches away from the rapidly fluttering organ when Sam had shouted.

His expression is blank when Sam pries his eyes open, blue eyes of his vessel narrowed in what could be considered curiosity, the light tendrils of his grace flitting through the air are calm, void of the anger or even joy he usually got from fighting the archangel. Before he could begin to process any of it, he disappeared.

Everything goes dark, but oddly enough, Sam is still wide awake. Pain of broken ribs and split skin disappears as well as the slowly chilling feeling of blood on his skin. In fact, he can’t feel anything. His body… does he even have a body anymore? He can think, he can process the lack of any physical sensation, but he doesn’t feel like he exists. Even the ice cold of Lucifer’s grace that’s always present in the very air is nowhere to be found. He’s well and truly alone.

Without the archangel shaping the cage’s reality into his preferred scenery it’s dark. Not the comfortable darkness of night, nor the familiar darkness of closed eyelids. It’s black, unyielding, nothing. Jet black that absorbs your very thoughts, no shadows to play at the corners of your vision, just… emptiness. It’s almost painful to look at, but then again Sam isn’t sure he’s really looking at anything. It presses into him, caressing his very being with it’s absoluteness and threatening to swallow him whole. Perhaps it already had. 

It doesn’t feel like the cage anymore. It doesn’t feel… like anything at all.

There’s no jangle of chains, no roar of fire, or incessant arguing of two archangels. It’s quiet. An unavoidable, deafening silence. A void. Sam waits for something, anything to shatter the quiet like glass. He can’t hear his own breathing, is he even breathing anymore? Does he need to? Even the familiar thud of his own heartbeat had left him, the rushing of blood in his veins, it’s gone. Does he have a heart, blood? Does he exist anymore? Somehow the silence is too loud, even his own thoughts, his only real companion among the black, are almost drowned out by the pressing feeling of nothing. It’s lonely, but isn’t that better than having the devil around? Shouldn’t this feel like a blessing?

He forces his thoughts away from the omnipresent blackness. Closes his eyes, at least he thinks he does, as if to pretend this was a choice all his own. He thinks of Dean, thinks of his brother back on earth. Left alone, forced to watch his little brother take a swan dive down to hell. Sam can still practically feel his brother’s blood on his knuckles, the crack of his nose with each hit. Maybe this will finally make it up to him, the ultimate sacrifice. 

‘Maybe,’ Sam thinks, ‘you deserve all this.’

How many people have died because of him? How many have suffered? He tried so hard to be good, to do something right, and because of him it all went so wrong. No matter how hard he tries he’ll always be the boy with the demon blood, a monster… a freak.

It’s hard to force these thoughts away when he doesn’t have much to focus on beside his own mind. Instead his mind travels to thoughts of Bobby, of Castiel. Of the way Cas had betrayed his own family to help them and in turn lost his life at the hands of the devil. The way Bobby acted as more of a father than John ever did and got a snapped neck for all his efforts. They were both dead, two innocent lives snuffed out all because Sam released the devil, all because he said yes.

‘You killed them. Their blood is on your hands.’

Freak.

Monster.

Abomination.

The thoughts are quiet, barely there, but with nothing else to focus on they become deafening, almost as much so as the quiet. Sam forces himself to focus on the darkness, the utter lack of anything physical around him, eventually his mind quiets to a mild buzz that is almost comforting among the silence.

He doesn’t know how long he sits among nothing. Eventually, after continuously pushing away the ravings of his innermost thoughts, they stop coming at all. He slowly starts to lose the self-deprecating pondering, and in turn loses thoughts of earth. He vaguely remembers the snap of bone, splatters of red, but isn’t sure why it feels significant. He feels empty as his own mind betrays him, memories slowly absorbed by the ever present black. Had there ever been light? Sam isn’t sure he remembers what that looks like. What it feels like to… feel.

There’s something important missing, something that springs up a dull ache within him. It’s the only thing that makes him feel even if it is momentarily. A name, he should know a name. The name of the man with green eyes and… What does the man look like? He remembers green, and momentarily misses color itself, but that’s it. Why is the man important? Maybe he’s not, after all if he’s not here…

Where is here?

‘Hell,’ his damaged mind supplies helpfully. Why is he here? Why is he alone… why can’t he feel, why can’t he move, why can’t he see or hear something? He wants to feel again, wants to sense something other than the expanding nothing. How long has he been in the darkness? Or-- has he always been here? It feels like forever, it must be. Does he exist, or is he just a forgotten thought, discarded like a broken toy. And isn’t he? He must be broken, otherwise he would remember who he is, if he ever was somebody at all. He wants to remember, he needs to remember. The loneliness hurts in a way that still doesn’t alleviate his feelings of emptiness. He wants some kind of stimulation, contact with something, anything. He needs…

Lucifer…

The name slithers through his mind like a curse, he almost thinks he had spoken it aloud… Maybe he had… Could he talk anymore? Is anyone even around to hear him?

It takes a few long minutes… hours? But eventually he feels something respond, it’s cold his mind supplies sluggishly, a feeling he quickly latches on to. He follows the cold until he can see a light among the dark, had it always looked so beautiful? When he opens his eyes… when had he closed them…. He almost cries in relief. The darkness is gone. He doesn’t quite recognize the cold metal bars surrounding him, but the feeling of something solid beneath him is exhilarating. He can feel his chest rise and fall, hear the dull thud of something in his chest, and can’t imagine how he ever forgot how it felt to be alive… To feel, to sense, to be.

The wetness trailing over his cheeks is unfamiliar, but almost as welcome as the sudden hand that lands on his shoulder. He doesn’t flinch, despite a small part of himself finding this strange, and finds himself wanting to lean into the touch. He wants to feel, wants to experience again. Hesitantly, still unused to having a body to move, he turns towards the contact. A blonde man looks at him with eyes that are so very blue, Sam can’t look away, he wants the color to swallow him whole. He knows he should recognize the man, the barely there tendrils of something blue in the air around him should be a dead give away, right? All he knows is that looking at this man sparks something in him, a feeling of what he thinks may be fear. It’s beautiful, the way he can hear his breath hitch, hear his heart pounding frantically against his bones until the noise consumes his senses. He wants to feel more of it, it’s so much nicer than the empty.

“I thought you wanted to be left alone?” The blonde man speaks, and Sam does start at the new sound. He wants the man to speak more, fill the silence with his words.

Had he? Wanted to be left alone? Why would he ever wish for such a thing? He doesn’t want to be left, the man can’t leave him… He can’t be alone again, never again. He wants to stay, wants to feel everything again, he wants to remember.

“N-No,” his own voice is foreign, had he always sounded so pathetic? “P-Please don’t leave… Don’t l-leave me…”

A smile graces the man’s pink lips. Sam relishes the flash of teeth and the way his heart jackhammers in response. He idly recognizes a whimper as coming from him when that hand leaves his shoulder. He feels himself reaching for the man, desperate for contact, something.

'Please… I can’t be alone… Not again…'

That cold hand returns only to card through his hair, he leans into the touch. He doesn’t mind when those fingers turn harsh, tugging roughly to pull his head upward. His scalp throbs, and it’s beautiful… So beautiful. He had almost forgotten pain. It’s such a raw feeling, such a difference from the ache of nothingness. He wants more, needs more. He meets the man’s crystalline eyes, relishing the blurred wetness of his own, his neck protests the angle but that too feels all too perfect.

“I’ll never leave you alone again, Sammy.”


End file.
